


Once More

by artistbloomyk



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical The Beholding Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sort of a heist?, TMA, The Magnus Archives Season 1, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-25 03:13:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30082602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artistbloomyk/pseuds/artistbloomyk
Summary: Jon had always assumed that "love at first sight" was a conspiracy of capitalists, created to sell novels to teenagers and Disney films to children.And then it struck him like a poorly secured piano dangling over an unsuspecting pedestrian.Yet despite his crush on Martin Blackwood, Jon begins to realize Martin is guarding a slew of secrets regarding not just the future of the world, but Jon himself.If only Martin would tell Jon what was going on...
Relationships: Elias Bouchard & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Georgie Barker & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood & Gertrude Robinson, Martin Blackwood & Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 9
Kudos: 62





	1. Unto the Breach

Love at first sight was a conspiracy of capitalists, created to sell novels to teenagers and Disney films to children. Jon was onto them.  
(Though he himself would admit that he had little expertise on the topic of relationships. He had kissed exactly two people in his life, and even then he only really counted Georgie. Which was fine, she was fine, it was fine. They had kissed a few times and it was-- well, it must not have been fine, because she had explained to him soon after that maybe they were just meant to be friends. He had just been relieved that she brought it up first. His first kiss was technically Yvette Marley when he was eleven. They had been dared to kiss at a birthday party, and he had locked himself in the upstairs bathroom immediately afterwards and cried because kissing was just…just gross. And how could people enjoy it? Was there something wrong with him? It was just one additional thing to add to the list of things that made him, in the words of Yvette when she discovered he had cried, “a weirdo.”)  
In short, love at first sight was a myth.  
And then it struck him like a poorly secured piano dangling over an unsuspecting pedestrian. 

It had been an odd sort of morning from the start.  
Jon had blinked his eyes open and the first conscious thought to solidify at the forefront of his mind was that he could not properly See.  
Which was absurd. His eyesight was poor, yes, but he could still make out the ceiling above him (though it was not a ceiling he recognized at first…it was his ceiling in his flat, yet didn’t feel like a familiar sight to wake to).  
But it was more than just that. His head-- the world felt… quiet. Peaceful, almost.  
Like his mind had the clarity of a radio that had been properly tuned after years of teetering between stations, shedding the static sound of a hundred interfering channels.  
(Like someone had picked out his brain with an ice cream scoop-- like his head had been hollowed out of all he once knew and now there was nothing. There were pieces of him missing.)  
Well, that was an odd thought.  
Maybe he had been eating too much sugar lately? He had once seen a documentary where they fed rats an excess of sugar, and watched as they stumbled about into the walls of their maze. Yes, that was probably it. He’d have to start cutting back from now on.  
He turned in his bed to glare at his mobile.  
4:48AM.  
Wednesday.  
June, 2015.  
He groaned.  
Great. Fantastic. Wonderful. Department Meeting day.  
Well, there was no getting back to sleep now that he was up. Jon threw back his sheets and began his morning routine. 

Getting ready for work proved more a challenge than usual.  
It was one of those mornings where Jon seemed to have to manually input his actions: Remember where he left his glasses. Brush his teeth. Spit. Did he grab his keys? Yes, he put them in his back pocket already. Lock the front door behind him. Unlock the door when he realized he forgot his Oyster Card. Did he leave the kettle on? Of course not, he didn’t brew anything. But now he wanted to double check just to be sure...  
It felt like those text adventure games Georgie and he used to play until dawn back at uni. Zork, or whatever. Did she still play them? Did they remind her of him?  
He would not begrudge her if they did not. He had not talked to her in years at this point (was that right? It couldn’t be. He could have sworn he had just talked to her recently) and that was fine. It was fine. 

He managed to get to the Institute… well, pre-on time. No matter, he had lots of work to do. Probably.  
There were a few other staff members in the front lobby, shuffling about like zombies, in desperate need of the necromantic magic their morning coffees would bring. But thankfully he was able to sneak in without having to say hello to a single other soul. Perfect.  
Jon had made his way to his very own office. It was a little odd, of course, that he had a room to himself. He was just a researcher, and not even a senior one at that. Most of his peers had to share a space with one or two other people.  
But Elias had pulled him aside after a staff meeting some time ago and offered him his own office. Elias assured him that he understood Jon enjoyed a bit of space and privacy from his coworkers, especially considering how gossipy most of them were (Jon hadn’t really thought of the other researchers as gossipy until Elias brought it up. What were they gossiping about? Why didn’t they gossip in front of him more? Unless--) and Elias appreciated Jon didn’t get wrapped up in all that, and dedicated himself to his work like a proper adult. Elias could certainly make an allowance for Jon. In fact, Elias insisted that Jon help himself to the old storage cupboard on the first floor in the Research Wing. It would be easy to fit a desk in there! Elias would ask Facilities to help Jon move his things over later that day…  
And Jon accepted without hesitation.  
Truthfully, Jon had no idea what inspired Elias to give him his own (cupboard) office, but Jon was hardly ever one to pass over an opportunity to hide from people.  
Jon shimmied his way into his office, squeezing between the door and his desk. It had occurred to Jon many times that Elias had offered him the room because he was the only member of staff scrawny enough to fit. The desk took up most of the space, making it almost impossible to even slide through the door. Was that a fire hazard? It was probably a fire hazard.  
He unloaded his bag onto his cluttered desk and drank in the space for the first time in what felt like years. How had he let this place get so messy? He was fairly certain most of the papers and post-it notes on his desk had been rendered obsolete by now. He looked at the two books he had borrowed from the Library and-- yes, of course. They were due to return on Monday. He groaned.  
Somehow the concept of it being Wednesday felt abstract. Tuesday was a distant memory. What had he even done this week?  
Tea. Tea would help clear his head a bit. He was probably still just waking up. He did his routine shimmy to escape his office, and trekked his way back down the main staircase to the staff kitchen.  
And that's where Jon ran into him. 

Jon filled the electric kettle and leaned his forehead on the cabinet above the counter. He let his eyelids fall shut and prepared himself for an inevitable yawn. The staff kitchen was deserted, and would probably continue to be for a while longer. Maybe he’d just rest here a bit…  
When the slam of the kitchen door damn near sent him toppling over.  
He grabbed the edge of the counter, only just managing to keep himself from plummeting to the floor. He glared at the door, mouth already forming the shape of some barbed comment to whoever was responsible-- when his eyes landed on him.  
And it was love at first sight.  
The thing was, Jon had seen this man around the Institute. More in his periphery, he supposed. He’d seen him at staff meetings, and had maybe squeezed by him in the Stacks once or twice. Jon had even been in his Harassment Training group a month or so ago. He remembered that because Tim from Research had refused to take the session seriously, and instead made a game of trying to ask the man out for a drink, completely missing the point of Harassment Training. The man seemed to think it was funny, at least.  
So technically, it was not love at first sight because Jon had seen him before. It was more that this was the first time Jon was paying attention.  
And Jon just stood there. He had never thought the term lovestruck was so literal before, but looking at this man, Jon could suddenly empathize with how the dinosaurs must have felt when the Chicxulub comet collided with the earth’s surface.  
An overwhelming and cataclysmic sense of awe.  
And yet, the sensation in his chest was so familiar. Like it was something he had experienced before, but he could not remember when. Like he knew this man, somehow, but the memory was just beyond his reach… Which was ridiculous-- Jon had not talked to this man before. Jon didn’t even think he knew his name. It began with an “M,” didn’t it? He was fairly sure it did…  
It should be stated that all of these thoughts were merely flitting about Jon’s subconscious mind. A hum of ideas that sat just barely below the surface. Jon was hardly aware he was having them at all.  
His conscious mind, however, was consumed by one word and one word alone:  
Freckles.  
The man had a light wash of freckles scattered on his cheeks and nose. So light that if you were not paying attention you might not initially realize they were there.  
And here Jon was.  
Looking dead at them.  
Which felt wrong.  
Like he was gazing upon some holy thing and he desperately needed to avert his eyes, lest he be caught.  
No, no, no. He shouldn’t be staring because this was his coworker, and he couldn’t just go around staring at coworkers’ freckles. It created a bad work environment.  
But they were so lovely. Jon could probably find constellations in them if he looked long enough--  
Oh, God, the man was talking to him-- he was talking to Jon, and Jon had barely been listening--  
"--thank God, I’ve been looking all over for you--"  
Had he? Why? He had said Jon’s name too, at the start. Or Jon was sure he did, at least. That was what pulled Jon away from thinking about his freckles--  
Oh God, and now he was thinking about his freckles again! He could not go off on that tangent. The man was talking to him, and he was a professional, dammit. Now was not the time for freckles--  
“--I’d have called, but I realized I don’t have your number yet--”  
His hair was a dirty blonde, but Jon knew that if they were in the sunlight it would ignite gold. Damn these fluorescents. It was blasphemous to treat him in this way--  
“--believe we’re back! And Gertrude’s alive--”  
Jon was too far gone from the conversation to ever recover. What was he talking about? Gertrude? The old woman down in the Archives?  
The man was walking towards Jon, positively beaming at him. No one, in all of Jon’s memories, had ever looked at him like that. With such raw affection. Maybe he had the wrong person.  
And the man had stopped talking.  
Jon needed to respond. That’s how conversations worked. But the man was smiling wide enough for Jon to see a slight gap between his two front teeth and Jon could NOT think about how cute that was because he needed to respond or he would look like an idiot-- and, oh Good Lord, he had been silent for too long and needed to say something now--  
"I-- um… sorry, w-what?" Was all Jon managed.  
Jon watched as the man’s smile, which had bloomed on his face only moments ago, decayed and fell away. As eyebrows knit for just a moment in confusion. As that sunny expression was replaced with a blank white canvas.  
Jon was ready to die now, thank you very much.  
The man was looking-- really looking at Jon now. Jon shifted under the weight of his gaze, turning his own eyes down to his feet, as though this man had caught him in the middle of doing something wrong. Like he had suddenly realized he had been talking to the wrong person all along.  
Which was fair. The idea of him looking for Jon of all people was ridiculous.  
The man’s recovery was so fast that Jon would have missed it had it been anyone else.  
He offered Jon a smile. It was gentle, and patient, and clearly a performance he had rehearsed many times in his life. Jon wished he wouldn’t make that smile at him. Jon wished the man had just walked away.  
"S-sorry. You're Jon, right? Jon Sims?"  
"Y-yes." Jon offered. Maybe he could still recover from this and not come off like a total dunce.  
"I’m not actually sure we’ve met yet. Sorry, I should have thought of that before coming in and spouting complete nonsense at you.”  
"Oh, well, we’ve sort of met? We were in the Harassment Training thing a month ago, I think. And um… Tim kept-- flirting with you. But it has been some time, so I’d understand if you didn’t remember me--”  
“Tim!” He exclaimed, and a hint of a real smile tugged on the corners of his lips. Oh, stupid, idiot Jon. Of course he had a thing for Tim. Everyone had a thing for Tim.  
"Y-yes. He's very, um… fun." He had not meant for his tone to sound so defeated. He was probably coming off like a total prat. That’s when his brain finished processing the man’s earlier comment, and before he had a chance to think any wiser, the question had risen to his lips, "Sorry, did you just ask for my number?"  
The man blinked at Jon, "What?"  
Dear Lord. Now he sounded like he wanted this man’s number-- which he did, but you couldn’t just go around asking people for their numbers.  
"You said you… were planning on calling me? For work purposes, I assume."  
There. Nice and professional. No, wait. Was that too professional?  
"--I mean, not that I would be opposed if you wanted it for other purposes. Not that you do-- I just mean-- having people’s numbers can be useful--" If Jon were to be struck down with lightning at that very moment he would have considered it an act of mercy. This was awful. It was unbearable. Here he was, tripping over his own tongue, while this man watched him crash and burn. He could feel heat growing beneath his collar. “W-what I mean is-- is that if you require my number or a-any help with anything, I think it would be appropriate for me to give it to you.” Oh, wonderful, now he was stuttering. Just perfect. And--  
And the man looked like he was going to cry.  
Jon had totally miscalculated somewhere. Jon knew that social skills were not a strong suit of his, but he had absolutely no idea what he had done to invoke such a pained reaction. Like Jon had stabbed a dagger into the man’s heart and the more he spoke the deeper he twisted the blade.  
But again, the man recovered with that not-so-genuine-but-oh-so-patient smile.  
“Ts’alright. I wanted to have a researcher look over some material we dug up in the Library and Tim, actually, told me to talk to you. He said he was going to put us in touch, but I guess he never got round to it.” he gave a slight shake of his head. If it was a lie, he was doing a damn good job of it. Jon was almost certain it was a lie, “But, to be honest, it’s really not a big deal. And I’m sure you’re busy anyway, so I wouldn’t want to bother you with it--”  
"I mean, I wouldn't say it would be a bother," Jon wanted him to stay. To confide in him. He knew there was more going on here, but it felt just out of his reach… out of focus. "Are you working down in the Archives, now?"  
"What?"  
"It's just you mentioned Gertrude-- and I know most people avoid her if they can help it. Are you working with her now, or…?”  
"Oh. No. I'm in the Library." His reply was short. Clinical. Concise. He was looking down at the floor, doing that shifting thing that people did when Jon had gone on talking for too long.  
"Ah. Yes. I see. That's probably for the best. I can’t imagine working in the Archives. Have you been in the Stacks down there? It's an absolute maze. I hope they consider hiring assistants for Gertrude. She could probably do with a few more people helping her.” He was rambling. This man clearly wanted to leave and Jon was holding him hostage in an awkward social interaction.  
But the other man’s expression suddenly grew dark, his voice distant, "Believe me. Gertrude Robinson is more than capable by herself."  
Well what was Jon to make of that. This man definitely knew Gertrude. You don’t just talk about someone in an ominous tone without knowing them. And now Jon was the one shifting about, scratching his palms, not entirely sure how to break the heavy silence that began to fill the void between them.  
"I should get going, then." The man said suddenly, straightening up to leave.  
“W-what? Oh, yes. Of course,” Jon's heart plummeted at a velocity that would make a brick jealous, "Oh, well then. I see. And if you do need any help with-- with research or anything, please feel free to find me. It really isn’t any trouble.”  
Another gentle smile, though this one was softer. More sincere. And… sympathetic?  
"Thanks, Jon. But, honestly, I can probably handle it on my own. It’s not worth getting more people involved than needed, you know? And I know you’re busy, so you should just… definitely just focus on that for now, yea?”  
“Um… alright, then.”  
“Anyways, I should go find Gertrude. She’s probably around by now. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if she slept down there.”  
“Upside-down from the ceiling. Like a bat.” Jon added.  
Martin snorted at that. Jon congratulated himself.  
“I always thought that was more Elias’s style.”  
It was Jon’s turn to laugh, he was a bit rusty at it, “They share a room in the attic.”  
“Oh, I’d love to see that sitcom.”  
“Bring it up to Elias. He’d probably turn it into a scheme to raise revenue for Institute funds.”  
The other man laughed at that too, relaxing a bit. Then sighed.  
“Well, maybe I’ll see you around, then?” The other man said.  
“Y-yea. That would be…” Jon let the thought trail off, not sure what word would be appropriate to say in this situation, “Like during lunch hour, or something?” When did people see other people here? Jon was practically a local cryptid, keeping to quiet nooks and crannies when it was busy. If Jon wanted to see him again, that probably meant eating in the dining room during lunch hour. Which he would do if he had to, but.  
“Oh, I mean… yea. But, I… listen, you probably might not see me around for a few weeks? So, please don’t worry or-- or go looking around for me, okay? I know that you… I mean… I’m looking into an assignment, and it might take a bit, so…”  
He was leaving so much out. Jon ached for him to say more, to be included on the secret. He knew there was more, if only he would just say.  
“Alright, then.” Jon’s voice was small, seeped in disappointment. The other man flinched. “You’re sure you don’t want help?”  
The man pursed his lips. He was reconsidering. Jon could see him reconsidering. But after a moment, the man squeezed his eyes shut and sighed, “Nah, it’s really not that important.” He began to step back to the door, “It was good to see you though. You’ll, um.... Just, look after yourself. Please. Okay?”  
“Wait!” It was such a desperate cry, a bit too dramatic in tone for what the conversation entailed. It made the other man jump and look back, “You, um… I didn’t catch your name.”  
And that was too much.  
The other man really looked like he might cry now. Jon kicked himself, he had known Jon’s name. It only made sense that Jon should know his. Why had he asked? Why had he not just consulted the Institute Employee Directory like a normal person?  
“Martin. Martin Blackwood.” It was a strained delivery.  
“Oh. Martin.” Jon did not know what compelled him to repeat the name. Like he needed to taste the vowels and consonants in his mouth. Of course his name was Martin. It just seemed right. “Well, I’m Jon. Which you already knew, I guess, because you said it just now-- but since we are actually introducing ourselves, it seems only fair I say my name too--” He wanted to stop talking, but honestly, at this rate he had already done so much damage he really shouldn’t bother anymore. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” And he offered up his hand for-- oh Christ, no what was he doing-- he offered up his hand for a handshake.  
Martin blinked down at it.  
He was aware of how awkward it was. Jon was aware of how awkward it was. And now it was just an awkward, terrible, uncomfortable situation.  
Martin accepted the offer.  
“You will take care of yourself?” Martin gave his hand a tight squeeze like he did not want to let go.  
“Y-yes. You too, Martin.”  
They held it a bit too long.  
“Okay, then. I should probably go now.” Martin broke the handshake and stepped back to the door. Their eyes were still locked.  
“I’ll see you around, then?”  
“Yea. I hope so.” Martin spared one more moment to look at Jon, then averted his eyes to the kettle, which had clicked off automatically some time ago, “And if you’re having the white tea you’re supposed to add a bit of milk to it. Just--not too much. And for Christ’s sake, let it steep for at least two minutes. It takes a while, okay?”  
And with that, Martin left.  
Jon blinked. He had no idea how Martin knew his preference for white tea, but followed Martin’s advice and added milk and let it steep properly on his way back to his office.  
It was, he was certain, one of the best cups of tea he’d ever had.  
And, unfortunately, it was the last bright spot in a week that was about to completely unravel the world around him.


	2. Not With The Eyes, But With The Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon decides to not stalk his coworker. He endures a strange day about the Institute.

Jon could not un-notice Martin. It was getting ridiculous.  
Jon typically made a point of hiding in his office the majority of the day. And yet, he kept finding stupid excuses to wander about the corridors or pass through the front lobby. He hesitated going directly to the Library-- that was a bit closer to stalker territory than he was completely comfortable with. But there were only so many times he could justify going to the various bathrooms and water fountains about the Institute.  
Jon had even braved the staff dining hall during rush hour.  
The Institute had a rather nice dining hall, actually. It was directly attached to the staff kitchen and doubled as a small events room for guest speakers. With its fine carpet and brick hearth, it always felt a little too posh for Jon’s squashed ham sandwiches. The legend went that every Head of the Institute had been adamant that the faculty was NOT to use the guest dining hall for personal breaks-- it was (as expressly stated in the title) for GUESTS. Apparently, Elias had caved at the start of his tenure, officially converting it to double as a sort of social space for staff. Jon let the man have the point in his favor. If nothing else, Elias was apparently not as much of a prat as the previous Institute Heads.  
But no, Jon could not spot Martin among the legions of staff enjoying their lunch hour, and he had been so nervous waiting around in such an overly exposed area that he fled back to his office within minutes. He decided to just work through lunch.  
It was when he began to shuffle his papers about his desk, resolving that he actually needed to get a bit of work done, when his eyes landed on the stack of Library books.  
That were overdue.  
Jon dropped his head onto his desk and groaned. Of course he was happy to have a legitimate excuse to go to the Library. But what if he did see Martin and he thought Jon was stalking him? It was all well and good to stalk someone for work or professional purposes. It was a whole other issue if it was for personal reasons. And besides, treating Martin in such a way felt blasphemous. Sacrilegious.  
Jon replayed the morning conversation with Martin in his head. A bit of time had passed, and hopefully the distance would offer him a bit more clarity and perspective on the situation as opposed to… whatever the hell that was he had been doing in the actual moment. He had acted like a complete and utter oaf. A buffoon. No. There was no word the English language could offer that truly encompassed how much of a fool he had acted like around Martin. And Martin was just so collected and… and… cool. Even when Jon had acted like a complete moron and asked for his name, Martin had managed to recover and act like a professional. Jon could take a leaf out of his book.  
No, he was getting caught up in it again. He needed to take a step back, remove his… feelings… from the situation, and view it with an analytical lens.  
What had Martin said? ‘Take care of yourself’? Which was not technically an odd comment on its own, but the way Martin had said it… The weight those words had carried… that combined with the hand squeeze made Jon think that there was some danger lurking about, though whether that threat would be after him or Martin he was not entirely sure. And then there was the fact that Martin definitely acted like he knew Jon when he had first entered the room, and the familiarity he had spoken to him with.  
And what business did he have with Gertrude? Jon did not think much of the Institute’s resident basement dweller, but he had heard the rumors about her. Not that they were true, of course. They were ridiculous. But it was still enough to make him worry what Martin was getting into.  
If it was anyone else, Jon would have already been down there, but not Martin… So Jon would just have to-- to never go to the Library again. Ever.  
No, wait, that was dumb.  
They worked in the same building. He’d have to go to the Library at some point. Why not sooner? And if he ran into Martin maybe he could ask him… could ask him…  
Jon sat up, rubbing his temples. He’d return the books and if he saw Martin (pleaseseeMartinpleaseseeMartinpleaseseeMartin) he’d just say…  
Hello.  
He knew Martin had answers. Jon just had no idea what he had answers to. Somehow, Martin was the only thing that seemed to make sense in a day that felt completely topsy-turvy. But no, that was absolutely rubbish information. That wasn’t data at all-- it was just some weird emotional response that Jon should ignore for the sake of piecing this puzzle together.  
He'd just go to the Library and act… casual. And if he did not see Martin, it was fine. Absolutely fine. He could do that. 

Martin was not in the Library either.  
The woman behind the front desk lectured Jon on the importance of returning material in a timely manner and the general concept of “professional integrity,” but Jon largely ignored her and instead attempted to peer over her shoulder and into the Library staff room in a not-so-subtle manner. The woman gave up halfway through her speech when she realized there was no hope of winning Jon’s focus and shooed him away from the desk.  
Martin had said he wouldn’t be around, but where would he be?  
Jon should just do as Martin suggested. Just sit around. And wait. And do work, or… whatever. Jon could do that. That was easy-- he did those things on a daily basis. He could keep to himself.  
And then he ran into Elias.

Jon exited the ground floor door of the Library leading into the front lobby. Maybe he could take a late lunch in the dining hall now that it would be empty. He could try and clear his head a bit…  
When he was suddenly aware of a pricking along the back of his neck.  
It wasn’t an unusual feeling to have in the Institute. The two main theories among the staff were: drafts and cold spots induced by a combination of archaic architecture and a faulty heating/cooling system. Or ghosts. Typically not in that order.  
Neither answer satisfied Jon.  
And, in this one instance, Jon had proof neither were the case. Jon glanced around the lobby and was surprised to find Elias looking back.  
He was standing at the front desk talking to Rosie, or he must have been only moments ago, because his undivided attention was now directed entirely at Jon.  
And Jon simply looked back, slowing his stride to the back door as though he had just been caught doing something of ill repute.  
He had not been planning on maintaining eye contact with Elias the entire span of the lobby. He had been expecting Elias to look away at some point and then he would do the same.  
But no. Elias just stood there. Eyes fixed and unblinking.  
He narrowed them at Jon as though he had never seen this man in his Institute before and he was considering calling security. Jon suddenly wondered-- with horror-- if he had something on his shirt. Like a stain or a “kick me” sign. What was Elias looking at, exactly? As tempted as he was to look down and check for any marks, Jon could simply not find the will to break eye contact first.  
Jon reached the back door of the lobby, head craned completely over his shoulder, eyes locked with Elias's. Jon would probably have an easier time making one of the lobby pillars blink before Elias. Did he need something? He was being rude. Jon had half a mind to-- to--  
To just keep walking, actually. Jon seemed to have a better working relationship with Elias than the rest of the staff did. He should try not to antagonize the weirdo.  
Elias was always reminding Jon to go home when it got too late at night, and even let Jon sneak into lectures and use resources reserved for more senior staff. Jon figured he should be grateful to have someone looking out for him. But truthfully, Jon could not help but wonder what Elias wanted from him exactly.  
In the end, neither one blinked first. Jon walked through the doorway and lost sight of Elias. He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to rejuvenate them.  
“Huh.” Jon concluded.  
Jon continued down the hall to the dining hall.

Jon was dismayed, but not totally surprised, to find that a pirate had commandeered his ham sandwich during lunch.  
That’s what he got for leaving it unguarded.  
Jon sighed. He might as well indulge in the Secret Researcher Wagon Wheel Stash. It was odd for Jon to be in the mood for sweets, but it had been an odd sort of day and Jon badly needed a pick me up.  
He pulled the box down from its hiding place in the left hand cabinet above the sink and took one from the container, munching slowly on a corner as he perched himself on the edge of a seat at the kitchen table.  
After a minute or so, Jon found his eyes wandering up and down his left arm, which he had laid across the table… He placed his wagon wheel down and began to trace the skin with his fingertips, as though feeling for some mark he could not see.  
He had a single pale scar on his outer arm.  
Jon remembered when he had gotten it. He was maybe ten years old and had gone adventuring up a pine, wanting to see what the entire town looked like from the top. Only, he had gone too high and realized, too late, that he had no idea how to return to terra firma. Jon stayed in that tree till dusk began to set in, and he was forced to choose between attempting a descent or staying the night. In the dark.  
Jon tried to climb down in the low light. He lost his footing. You don’t need an extensive imagination to tell how that turned out.  
He could still remember the shade of white his bone had been when it splintered through his skin. Jon had passed out at the base of the tree and awoke to the sound of his Gran scolding him in A&E. But all things considered, the scar was so normal.  
His hand brushed by a freckle lying just above the scar…  
Was Martin in trouble? Jon had a terrible fear that he was. Why didn’t he tell Jon? That was ridiculous, Martin didn’t owe Jon anything. They had just met that morning (that couldn’t be right), but... What was Jon (forgetting) missing? Jon let out a long drawn sigh, resting his cheek in his palm and staring blankly at God-only-knew.  
“The apprentice has become the master!”  
Jon inhaled his bite of wagon wheel and began to choke, coughing and spluttering as he tried to wrestle oxygen back to his lungs.  
“Tim.” Jon tried to sound as dignified as possible as he rasped a greeting to his coworker, rubbing tears from his eyes. “Sasha.”  
Jon liked Tim and Sasha. Or, at least, he liked them more than the majority of the faculty. He would sit with them during staff meetings and the occasional Institute luncheon and would do his best to stay silent and pretend not to exist. In return, they tolerated him. They’d invite him out for drinks with some of the members of staff within their…demographic every now and then, and he would politely thank them and decline. It was not a perfect relationship, but it was theirs.  
“Soooooo? Who were you thinking of just now, Jon?”  
“Thinking about--!?! I was not. What would even-- at work, Tim!?!”  
Tim hopped up to sit on the kitchen counter, grinning down at Jon, and shrugged, “You tell me. You were staring off into space, looking very dreamy--”  
“It’s called thinking, I advise you try it sometime--”  
“Mhhhhhmmmm? Thinking about what?”  
“That is none of your concern!”  
“Just seems out of character for you-- hiding down here instead of in your office.”  
“It’s my lunch hour, I can hide wherever I want!”  
“Uh-huh. And just how many hours IS lunch hour?” Tim looked down at Jon from his mighty perch atop the counter.  
Jon’s mouth worked stupidly at him as he tried to figure out what Tim was getting at. “I-I- Sasha.” Jon looked to the competent person in the room, waiting for an explanation.  
Sasha shrugged, helping herself to a wagon wheel. “Sorry, Jon. I’m Team Tim on this one. Who were you thinking about?”  
“I-- I wasn’t-- Do you people need something?”  
Sasha and Tim both bit back smiles, exchanging knowing glances.  
“Jon,” Sasha began more gently this time, “Our Department Meeting today? At two? Have you ever missed one before?” Jon could feel his eyes grow to roughly the size of golf balls-- he had totally forgotten. Sasha was still talking. Why was she still talking? “Elias was sitting in on it today. He asked where you were specifically.”  
This was a nightmare. A literal nightmare. Next Sasha would say, “And you forgot to wear trousers!” And Jon would scream and wake up in bed and this whole weird day would turn out to be one weird dream.  
Tim was nodding in approval, “And I thought I was the only one brave enough to skip those boring things. Well done, Jon!”  
Jon moaned, dropping his head down into his arms. He pushed his wagon wheel as far away as possible, his appetite abandoning him.  
“Elias was glaring at me in the lobby a few minutes ago,” Jon mumbled into his sleeve. “He was probably expecting me to go over and apologize.”  
Sasha shook her head, “Really, Jon, don’t take it to heart too much. We all miss meetings now and then. It’s just bad luck Elias happened to be in this one. And happened to notice.”  
“He asked for me specifically?” Jon looked between Tim and Sasha, torn between total horror and feeling slightly complimented that anyone had noticed he was missing at all. Tim and Sasha did not respond. Jon groaned again. “I’ll have to apologize to him. At some point.”  
“Well. You don’t have to.” Tim advised.  
At the same time, Sasha said, “Screw him.” Tim snickered into his hand. Jon blinked at the sudden hostility. “What? Elias is a bully, and the last thing he needs is the satisfaction of seeing an underling all upset and guilty, or whatever. This is the first time you’ve missed anything. He knows that as well as anyone.”  
Jon buried his head back into his arms again, though this time in an attempt to hide his blush. He knew that it was less about siding with him and more about siding against Elias, but he was slightly flattered Sasha came to his defense. Then he remembered something. And looked back up.  
“Tim? You’re familiar with Martin Blackwood, right?”  
Tim looked too smug too fast. Jon regretted asking immediately.  
“Ooooohhhhhh. Martin? Jon!” Tim began to rub his hands together, his grin spanning his entire face. Sasha did a better job of keeping her cool, though she still had to dig her teeth into her lip to keep a smile tethered down.  
“No-- Tim-- it isn’t-- not like that!” Well, yes like that, but Jon was not going to admit it.  
“After all these years! I finally know your type--”  
“I don’t-- he isn’t my--” If given a choice, he’d rather be choking on the wagon wheel than his own words. He took a deep breath in, recomposing himself. “He told me that you recommended me for research consultation! I wanted to ask what for.”  
“He referenced me? By name?” Tim was smiling to Sasha now, rubbing his hands faster, “I don’t even have to do the work of matchmaking anymore! My reputation is preceding me!”  
“Excuse me?”  
“The real question we should be asking is how are you Martin’s type? I mean… I guess I can kinda see it. In that sad, malnourished way--”  
“I’m not malnourished-- sad?”  
“He has a point, Jon. Have you eaten anything today? Other than half a wagon wheel?”  
Jon felt the grumble barely leave his mouth, “Someone stole my sandwich.”  
“Jon. I never talked to Martin about any research projects or whatever. And, I mean. Martin -- he was definitely hitting on you--”  
No, he definitely wasn’t.  
“--It’s fantastic! Are you going to go out with him? You should!”  
Sasha nodded in agreement. “I know Martin. He’s a super nice guy, Jon.”  
“If nothing else, it will get you out of this macabre place more. You could do with a bit of sunlight.”  
“This isn’t about dating! He’s working on something with Gertrude!”  
That got a pause from them both.  
Every member of staff had their own opinion on the Lore of Gertrude Robinson. The majority of the faculty ignored the rumors and chalked her up to simply being your run-of-the-mill elderly lady who either did not have the faculties to do her job properly or simply did not care. But then there were the people down in Artifact Storage, and the custodial staff, and the occasional researchers who wandered down into the Archives looking to borrow statements…  
Tim, who ascribed to the former, snorted. “That old bat? Martin was probably sharing biscuit recipes with her. Or starting a poetry club.”  
Oh, Martin liked poetry? That was… unique.  
But Sasha’s face darkened with the same expression that had crossed Martin’s face earlier that day. Jon felt his stomach twist.  
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Tim.” Tim and Jon both stared at Sasha, waiting for her to finish chewing before she continued, and building an unfortunate amount of suspense in the process., “I don’t know what goes on down there in the Archives, but…You know, back before you both joined here, we had this game in Research called, ‘Where In The World Are Gertrude’s Assistants?’ She started with five or something. We wanted to see if we could track any of them down. Figure out where they had all gone after suddenly vanishing from the Institute.” Jon had heard iterations of this story before, but he had always assumed they were being dramatic. “The entire Research team was in on this, mind you. And we all came up with nothing. There was this one guy-- we couldn’t even figure out his age or how long he worked here. All the information in his timeline was contradictory, like someone had gone back through and scrambled it up. It’s pretty creepy.” Sasha shook her head.  
Tim had gone silent, the joking mood seeming to drain out of him.  
“Sorry, Tim. I know that stuff is… well,” Sasha began to reach a hand to Tim to pat him on the arm, then shot a look at Jon and seemed to think better of it. She pulled back. “But it’s probably nothing? Gertrude’s getting up there in years, she probably just needs help organizing all those files. The biggest threat to Martin’s health is that he might hurt his eyes reading paperwork in the low light down there.” Her voice lacked its typical confidence and conviction. Sasha was just trying to reassure Jon.  
And that was all Jon needed to hear to go into full fledged panic mode.  
On the inside.  
“I see. Thank you, Sasha. I suppose that’s all worth considering.” It was a mechanical response. He needed a moment alone. He needed to think this over. He needed to find Martin. “Anyways, I best be off. I should probably. Do some things. You know. Be seeing you both.”  
He didn’t give the others a chance to respond as he stumbled his way from the kitchen. 

Jon squeezed into his office.  
The first step of his plan was to find his calendar book. Not remembering the Department Meeting was concerning, yes, but it was more than just that. He realized he hadn’t the slightest clue as to what the date was. What week was it, even? He found his calendar book buried under a stack of folders and flipped it open to…  
Wednesday. June 15th, 2015.  
Sure enough, he had missed the Department Meeting noted on that date. Thank God that was the only appointment he had scheduled. Jon glanced at Tuesday. Jotted there, in Jon’s own spindly scrawl, was a note reminding himself to follow up on his request to be taken off the assignment Artifact Storage requested he look into about a music box with a strange…  
Ah, yes. He remembered that much, at least.  
A music box manufactured in Switzerland circa 1810, with a strange web-like pattern painted in silver on the black exterior. It had been acquired by Artifact Storage after being found, left open and still playing, next to a dead man. Based on the autopsy, the man had just stopped. And not “stopped” as in organ failure or heart attack. “Stopped” as in he had simply sat down and decided to not get up again. The cause of death was starvation, despite his fully stocked pantry. By the time the neighbors had gone into his flat to investigate the smell, his corpse had been covered in spider webs.  
Jon had taken one look at the assignment and immediately filed a request to be removed. No spider adjacent artifacts for him if he could avoid it, thank you very much. Of course he was curious about it, but he could wait to read the results from someone else's investigation.  
Jon was almost always thrown onto the worst assignments. Everyone knew he never said no to even the grimmest of cases. None of the other researchers seemed able to decide whether or not it was because Jon was a pushover, or because he was a weirdo obsessed with all the creepy stuff the Institute had to offer. But ultimately, he accepted what they dumped on him without objection, and they did not question it.  
Which was fine, so long as they stopped giving him spiders.  
There was a knock on his door.  
Jon fell out of his chair.  
“C-come in!” He hauled himself back into his seat, hoping they did not hear Jon’s head smack against the wall behind him just then.  
Elias peered inside.  
Great.  
“E-Elias! I meant to stop by your office! I wanted to apologize. Some-- personal things-- came up that conflicted with the Department Meeting today. Which I know is not very professional-- I plan on being more responsible in the future--”  
Elias stared.  
Elias typically interrupted Jon by this point in the conversation. But not this time-- this time he was just staring.  
Jon wondered if the man ever blinked. He had even considered consulting the CCTV footage to see. But no one else ever brought it up, so Jon had decided Elias must also wonder if Jon ever blinked. So they both weren’t blinking while they tried to catch the other.  
Or maybe they were just blinking at the same time?  
If Elias was mad, why didn’t he just say something? If he wanted to lecture Jon about attendance then Jon could at least endure it and move on with his day. But just staring like that, letting Jon ramble on, it was just making Jon anxious. He could feel himself bristling now. “I should note that I have had perfect attendance until now. So I hope I can be allowed to miss at least one staff meeting for personal reasons. I don’t plan on making a habit of this.”  
Elias said nothing.  
Jon had long since come to the conclusion that Elias was just. Weird.  
And not in the fun boss way.  
Once, Jon had gone to Elias’s office to ask about a grant, and he had opened the door to find Elias talking to a skull sitting on his desk. Elias had laughed at Jon’s reaction, like he had just pulled a splendid prank, and then proceeded to drop it in the bottom drawer of his desk and immediately moved on to the conversation of business.  
Another time, at an Institute luncheon, Jon had piled up a plate of food from the serving table. And Elias had just… walked up. And thanked him. And took Jon’s plate. Like Jon had arranged it for him.  
Jon had gotten the last ham sandwich, too.  
He had almost punched Elias that day.  
The real problem was that every time Jon pegged Elias as a bad person, Elias would do something nice and throw Jon completely off kilter.  
Elias had once let Jon borrow a binder of nineteenth century London workhouse floor plans, complete with a series of letters exchanged between the proprietor of the building and Jonah Magnus himself-- from Elias’s personal collection. It was like Christmas.  
Come to think of it, that had been the same exact meeting as the skull incident. They had reached the end of their session, and Elias caught Jon stealing glances at the myriad of books and documents neatly arranged along the walls by date. Jon’s eyes happened to linger on that particular binder for a bit too long, and Elias began to chuckle and told Jon that he could take it back to his office and keep it for as long as he pleased.  
Jon had been so excited to look over the documents he had almost forgotten all about the whole skull thing.  
And then Elias did stuff like this. Which was not really good or bad. Just weird.  
And it was at that exact moment that Jon doubled over.  
It felt like an ice pick had been driven into his skull--  
No. That was wrong. He had gotten ice pick headaches before. They hurt, yes, but they were violent and vicious, with the same random fury a bear might have while raiding a campsite.  
This pain was different. Calculated. Clinical.  
He had the sudden image of a picky child driving a fork into his thoughts, picking them apart as they looked for the tastiest morsel. Stirring and poking and stabbing bits and pieces aside--  
Playing with their food before they ate it.  
Jon’s eyes bulged as though attempting to escape his sockets-- what the hell kind of migraine was this?  
And then the pain withdrew, leaving Jon hollow-headed and dizzy.  
“Jonathan. Are you feeling alright? You aren’t looking too well.”  
Jon gave his eyes one final rub and blinked up at Elias, squinting through the obscenely bright lights.  
“S-sorry. Just a migraine, I think, I’m sure it will pass in a bit…” Jon hated how his voice wavered under the weight of his pain.  
“Hm. There’s aspirin under the kitchen sink should you need any.”  
“Y-yes. I should probably do that…”  
“Is that why you missed the Department Meeting?”  
“Wha?” Jon asked stupidly, then realized that Elias was handing him his excuse. “Oh, y-yes. Sorry. I’ve been feeling a bit off, recently.”  
“I see.” The door could only open so far, and Elias just looked like a floating head with the rest of his body hidden like that. If Jon’s skull was not on the verge of splitting in two he might have found it funny. “And this all started today, did it?”  
“Yes.”  
“How unfortunate. Any idea what might have triggered it? Something yesterday, or perhaps last night? Anything… unusual?” Jon remembered adults using that tone with him when he was little. The ‘I won’t be mad if you tell the truth’ tone.  
Jon tensed, but gave the question genuine thought.  
And came up completely blank.  
What had happened between today and yesterday?  
He had just woken up in bed this morning and begun his routine without question. But what was before that? He tried to focus, forcing himself to look point blank at the black hole where yesterday should have been…  
And his mind disintegrated to static. Images and sounds impossible to grasp because there was nothing there. The static prickled and pierced like sharp steel against his brain.  
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ride out the fresh wave of pain. He needed Martin. Martin was the one thing he remembered-- the one thing that felt familiar in this whole mess of a world he had woken up in.  
He felt his teeth drag together as he tried to Look.  
He was going to be sick. He was going to need a bin. God, he was so light headed…  
And then Jon’s office came back into focus. Maybe only a few seconds had passed. Elias’s head still bobbed in the doorframe, awaiting a response.  
“I... um… to be honest, I’m not really sure? I guess I can’t remember anything… weird.” Weird was a last minute amendment. "Again, sorry for missing the meeting. I hope I can make up for it.”  
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry. You’ve already done quite more than I expected from you.” It was one of the first genuine sounding comments Jon had ever heard from Elias.  
Jon shifted beneath the weight of Elias’s praise. “But still, I don’t think hard work should excuse bad attendance.” Elias was excusing him, yet Jon could not help but dig his heels in. Why did he need to play devil’s advocate like that? The sooner he agreed with Elias, the sooner he would leave Jon alone to his miserable migraine.  
"Jon," Elias gave a sympathetic smile with a bit too much honey, "everyone misses meetings now and again. We're all human, aren't we?"  
"Yes…?" Jon agreed.  
"I see some interesting opportunities for you in the near future, Jon. Nearer than I initially expected." Elias nodded, still smiling, "Keep up the good work, will you?"  
"Y-yeah. Thank you." Jon stammered. Just confused.  
"No, Jon. Thank you." And the ominous floating head began to bob out to the hallway from whence it came.  
"Elias?"  
Elias's head appeared once more. Eyes narrowed.  
“Yes, Jon?”  
“Um, do you happen to talk to Gertrude much?”  
A smile (Jon could only describe it as) bloomed across Elias’s face. “Gertrude? Developing an interest in the Archives now, are we? You are full of surprises today.”  
“N-no! Not really. Just… more curious. I’ve not talked to her… at all, really. And I heard some of the other researchers talking about her former assistants earlier today. I was just wondering… what do the Archives do here, exactly? Besides statements?”  
Elias gave Jon a knowing smirk. “Ah. Well. Jon. I think you might be getting some first hand experience with that. Very soon, actually.” Elias winked at him-- he winked, that was half a blink! He was mocking Jon-- "As I said earlier, some interesting opportunities are heading your way.” And with that, Elias withdrew his head and shut the door behind him.  
And Jon was left to stew in his tiny excuse of an office, wondering what the hell his ominous boss was talking about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time! Jon investigates... a mystery! And may or may not get a head injury while doing so (man, just like in the Nancy Drew video games, do you guys remember those? That girl could not get through the day without someone bludgeoning her on the head. She really needs to just wear a helmet wherever she goes).


	3. We Know What We Are, But Not What We May Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon finds a few clues about Gertrude and Martin.

Jon’s flat simply felt wrong.  
The problem was, Jon’s flat was perfectly fine. He could not for the life of him determine why he felt so out of place there. He liked his flat a lot. It was a bit crammed, of course. Only someone his size could live in it with any semblance of comfort. Well, comfort might be pushing it. But he certainly lived there.  
What redeemed his tiny attic space in Canary Wharf was the view of the Thames illuminated with the aura of London nightlife. It was a small solace he could rely on seeing when he returned from a late night of work. The place probably should have been more expensive, but with the winning combination of how tight a squeeze it was, the lack of a lift in the building, and that the previous tenant had been murdered with a cleaver in the kitchen, allowed Jon to make off with a stellar deal.  
By the time Jon returned from the Institute, the idea of scraping together a dinner seemed about as appealing as putting his hand on a hot stove. He did not want to spend the energy on something so extravagant as pasta… toast would do just fine.  
He spent the rest of the night pretending to read in bed, unable to breach the first paragraph of the chapter. He was not even sure what book he was looking at, he had not bothered checking the spine when he pulled it off the shelf.  
He was going to the Archives first thing in the morning.  
He would speak with Gertrude and (with any luck) Martin.  
He needed to know what they knew.  
Jon let his mind wander back to Martin. That smile he had given Jon just that morning. No one had ever looked at Jon like that before. Georgie might have been the closest Jon could think of, but even then it had been closer to the adoring approval of an older sister (good Lord, how could he have dated her?).  
The image of Martin’s smile would be the last comforting thought he’d have for the next several hours as he drifted off to sleep.

Jon was certain the fog would suffocate him.  
For some reason, Jon first thought he was on a beach-- it would have made sense with all the fog, somehow. But no, after a few steps forward he realized he was walking on a hard marble floor. He squinted down, struggling to make it out. He was standing in a house, though it must be large and cold and beautiful and empty and…  
What had he been looking for? An exit, he must have been looking for an exit. He stretched his hand out in front of him to try and feel his way forward. He’d come across something… at some point…  
It was sometime before his hand made contact with the wall and he leaned his weight on it, sighing in relief. This place had some tangible boundary-- he had been starting to fear he’d never come across… never find…  
No, this wasn’t right. He was looking for something else. Jon pressed his head against the wall for support as he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember. He had been looking for… someone.  
Martin?  
Jon recoiled from the wall and began to whip his head about the room. Martin! Who else was there? But Jon couldn’t see through the fog-- how was he supposed to help Martin if he could not see? He couldn’t even help himself…  
There! Jon could just see a silhouette, its edges bleeding into the fog. He began to charge at it, diving straight through the mist-- oh, thank God, it was Martin-- Martin would help him-- or, no, he was here to help Martin-- Jon could not remember, but it did not matter anymore. Jon reached his hand forward and found the silhouette’s shoulder--  
And Jon screamed.  
To say the thing had no face would be a lie. It had features-- Jon could swear there must have been features-- but the only thing he could make out were the eyes. Hollowed out dead things, milked pale by the mist.  
Jon doubled over, his eardrums rattling with static. He clawed at them, desperate to rip the buzzing from his head. He’d do anything, just please make it stop, make it stop--  
And then the world blinked.  
And it was not fog anymore but a light haze, the kind that theaters or circuses used to catch and crystallize light for the performance. Only, the haze made his eyes water and the world swung about like a carousel as he tried to balance. Jon was being drawn to… chased through… he was in a mirror maze. He kept catching the thing that was taunting him in his periphery as it multiplied and divided amongst the mirrors. He could see that their skin was too smooth and flawless to be flesh. Their face, too symmetrical and beautiful to be human.  
He was reaching out, pressing his palms against the glass walls in an attempt to find an exit. And then he reached a dead end, and his reflection was not a person he recognized. Its skin was spotted with marks and burns, a scar grinned across its neck, and its eyes…  
The thing in the mirror could not be him, because its eyes were not human.  
And Jon was human, wasn’t he?  
And then someone who was and wasn't Tim was there.  
He had something in his hand.  
And then there was just pain. Pain, and a smell that reminded Jon of the time Gran left the Christmas Eve ham in the oven for too long.  
He could feel his entire body being torn into a million pieces-- or wanting to be torn, reality demanded that his body be ripped to ash-- yet something kept his body sewn together.  
And the world blinked.  
And the haze turned to smoke as someone gripped his hand tight and his skin began to burn and bubble and wax from his muscle--

Jon had no idea how he made it to the toilet in time, but some blessings were not worth questioning.  
He convulsed into the basin for what felt like hours. Why did he hurt like this? Who did he have to beg for forgiveness to be spared this pain?  
But it was more than just a hurt. He felt… he felt…  
Tainted? No, that was not the right word. But it was something close.  
Jon curled into a ball on the linoleum, his teeth chattering and his traitorous limbs too heavy to maneuver. Jon hugged his knees to his chest and held his right hand in front of his face. He had a few calluses and scars, yes, but nothing more. The skin was smooth, and his fate lines unmarred. Unmarked.  
So why could he still feel that agony boiling just beneath the surface of his skin? Like the burn had gone deeper than just the flesh. No, that was ridiculous. It was all just a dream. This was just some sort of post-night terror symptom. Or maybe some phantom pain?  
What was happening?  
Jon rubbed his throat, feeling for the scar he had seen on his neck in that nightmare reflection. Like his hand, the skin on his neck was smooth and clear. But why did it feel as though…  
No. Jon was being ridiculous. The dreams and pain were just stress induced-- he had gone and gotten himself worked up over Elias, and Gertrude, and…  
Jon cradled his hand to his chest, pulling his knees so close that they touched his forehead as though they might shield his aching hand from any harm.  
He had no clue what was happening to him. He just wanted this pain to stop.  
Jon spent the remainder of the night on the bathroom floor, passing in and out of a haze that vaguely resembled sleep.

Jon arrived to work earlier than usual.  
Which was to say, he was there obscenely early in hopes he might be able to catch the Great and Powerful Gertrude.  
He was growing confident that she could answer his questions. And if she wasn’t there, then… there were other means to finding answers in the Archives.  
The motion activated lights winked at Jon as he descended the steps to the Archives and followed the brick tunnel to the staff room. He’d been in the Stacks down here before, of course, but the staff room was a mystery to him. He pushed the door open and found the light switch, dousing the room in a flickering tungsten.  
The assistant desks were only half abandoned, as though someone had forgotten to finish the job halfway through. One had a pot of dried dirt that Jon could only assume once housed a long-decayed plant. Another desk was buried beneath a mountain of still opened, dog-eared books. A few still bore post-it notes from Gertrude scolding an assistant named Michael for filing statements in the correct order. What was Gertrude on about? She had literally one job to do, and here she was getting mad at her assistant for doing it. The final desk was dressed in more spiderwebs than Miss Havisham… that was probably Jon’s cue to move on.  
Gertrude was clearly not in the staff room. But still. Jon returned to the hallway and cleared his throat, prepping to break the silence, “Um… hullo? Miss Robinson?”  
He let his words reverberate down the empty corridor and counted to three. Nothing. He returned to the staff room and shut the door behind him. Best not to risk being spotted by any wandering coworkers while he… investigated a bit.  
Jon tiptoed to Gertrude’s office door, giving it one last knock to be sure it was vacant. “G-Gertrude?” He waited again. Then, with a bit more hope, “Martin?”  
Jon waited one more moment-- yes, that second one had been a bit too hopeful. Jon tested the lock to Gertrude’s office door. Breaking into the Head Archivist’s office was probably a fireable offense.  
If he was caught.  
If she was not going to be around to give him answers, and if Martin really was in any danger, then he needed to find the truth sooner rather than later. He tried to ignore the part of himself that was excited to take a look around. Gertrude could not lie to him this way, so it was probably a more efficient means of getting to the truth.  
Jon took inventory of the office door. It was a sturdy old thing, a relic that had withstood the 200 year test of time from the building's first conception. Which really said something, considering the Archives, the Library, the lobby, the dining hall, and a few of the senior staff offices like Elias’s were the only surviving sections from the original Institute.  
The rest of the building, such as the original Research Wing, the auditorium, various lecture halls, and office spaces, were blown to smithereens in the Blitz.  
It had come up jokingly at a department meeting Elias had intruded on. Elias had sighed so loudly that the conversation was forced to a screeching halt as they all looked to see what the theatrics were about. Elias announced, with the air one might deliver a eulogy, that it was certainly a tragedy his Institute had suffered such a disaster. But the parts that really mattered had survived. With that, the Research Department watched in awkward silence as Elias stood and marched from the room. Jon could have sworn he heard Elias sniffing as he walked to the door.  
That being said, Jon knew full well that doors this old and sturdy would be more a matter of mind over muscle. Not that Jon had any experience with breaking into old buildings. And certainly not while helping Georgie investigate possible haunted locations for What The Ghost.  
He peered down at the keyhole, then to the reasonably large crack between the door and its frame. Yes, he could work with this.  
Jon spotted a metal ruler on Michael’s desk and snatched it up, wedging it into the crevice and wiggling it about just below where the lock latched with the frame.  
Within seconds, the door to Gertrude’s office swung open.  
He was very proud.  
For exactly two seconds.  
When a heavy ceiling tile came plummeting down from just inside Gertrude’s office and shattered into oblivion onto the hard stone floor below.  
“Jesus Christ!”  
Jon fell backwards, catching himself on Michael’s desk and clutching at his chest in an effort to keep his heart from bursting free. Had he not taken a moment just then to congratulate himself for breaking into his coworker’s office, he would have stepped forward and-- would that have been a lethal blow? Gertrude was, quite literally, letting the Archives fall apart. The bloody place could survive the Blitz, but would come crumbling to the ground if Gertrude Robinson kept this up.  
Jon’s anger gave way to just his standard state of annoyance when he came across incompotent people.  
“That crazy old woman--” He mumbled under his breath, giving the tile shards a wide berth as he crept into the office. He took stock.  
His first opinion was that she had the office set up all wrong. Why was the desk off to the side like that? It would clearly be a more optimal position if she put it center pushed slightly towards the far wall. And-- dear Lord-- if she was going to treat the bookshelf like that, then she shouldn’t be allowed to have one. The books had been inserted with their spins towards the wall. How was she supposed to find anything? What sort of monster was she? No matter. He was not here to critique the Feng shui. He had more important business to attend to.  
He went to the desk first. There was little of note on the surface; a computer, some paperwork, a tape recorder… He gave the drawers a test tug-- hoping Gertrude had been confident enough in her locked door to leave the desk unguarded. No such luck. They were locked just as tight.  
Jon sat on the floor to give the drawers consideration. The ruler trick was straight out, he could see that immediately. The design of the lock was sturdy, modern. It was an office standard, really, identical to the desk in his office and every other in the Institute in every single manner--  
...No…Could it really be that easy?  
Jon looked down at the keys on his lanyard. And with nothing to lose, he made a go of it.  
The top drawer gave way with ease and Jon scoffed. It seemed ridiculous Elias would invest in desks with interchangeable locks, but that was upper management for you.  
There was barely anything of note in the top drawer. Same with the middle. Just a stack of handwritten statements that really should have been in the Archives, considering their age. Jon rolled his eyes when he glanced over the contents. Why was Gertrude Robinson keeping correspondence from Jonah Magnus to his contemporaries in her desk? Really. Normal Archives wouldn’t even let Jon put his elbows on the table when handling documents, but not here. At the Magnus Institute you could just go around cramming 200 year old letters into your desk like they were candy wrappers.  
He opened the bottom drawer.  
It was totally bare.  
Jon examined it closer, feeling around for anything peculiar like a string, or-- there you go. Jon could feel, at the back of the drawer, a small hole. Just wide enough for a finger to slide into and lift up the fake bottom. The only problem was, Jon’s arm was not quite long enough to reach.  
Jon threw his hand onto the surface of Gertrude’s desk and pawed about, finally landing on a pencil. Yes, that should do nicely. He’d be able to pry it up, at least, even though it would be a little awkward.  
Jon returned to the hole in the fake drawer bottom, armed and ready. He threaded the pencil through the hole and--  
There was a sudden snap of jaws as something bit down into the pencil. Jon lurched in alarm, his head cracking against the edge of the desk. Clutching the newly grown egg on his head, Jon withdrew what remained of the wooden nub from the drawer.  
Whatever chomped down on it had made a clean break, leaving only a slightly ragged nub. What the hell? Jon glared from the splintered wood of the pencil, back to the fake drawer bottom. He would not be bested by whatever was hiding under there.  
Take two! Jon grabbed another pencil from the desk top and threaded it back into the hole, his arm tensed in preparation for a second attack.  
It did not come. Jon leveraged the fake bottom upwards, creating enough of a gap for him to wedge his fingernails below the thin edge and tear the fake bottom up and out. Jon peered in to see what had attacked the first pencil…  
Sure enough, a mouse trap sat just below where the fake bottom’s hole led. An industrial grade mouse trap, at that, the kind that would be reserved solely for factories or warehouses. Jesus, if Jon’s arm had been long enough that he did not need to use a pencil… bye-bye pointer finger. What the hell was Gertrude hiding in here?  
Jon looked down at the stack of papers that had been hiding under the fake bottom and realized that the one that sat on the very top was…  
His CV.  
And not just his CV, either. A printed copy of his security photo was there as well.  
And his eyes were penned out.  
Well. That was. Creepy.  
Jon snatched them up from the stack, looking them over for any marks or notes that might give him a clue as to why Gertrude would want his CV on hand in her sketchy secret compartment. Perhaps, if it were just the CV, he could believe Gertrude had been looking it over in hopes of recruiting him as an assistant. Though that did nothing to explain the vandalized copy of his photo.  
Jon glanced back to the pile and felt his heart leap into his throat.  
Martin’s photo was next on the stack, eyes penned out and pinned to his own CV as well. Jon’s CV was thrown aside, completely forgotten, as he dove for Martin’s paperwork. Like Jon’s, Martin’s CV had nothing of note as well. Well, besides a few grammatical errors. Jon placed Martin’s paperwork carefully onto the desk next to his own before returning to examine the remaining files. There were more CVs and eyeless photos below, and Jon took them out one at a time, examining each one carefully for a possible pattern.  
Tim was the only other person in the stack that he knew by name.  
There were too many to splay them all out on Gertrude’s desk, and Jon soon found himself sitting crisscrossed on the floor surrounded by a flurry of papers. There were fifty-seven people in all.  
Why was Gertrude keeping tabs on these particular employees? What was the pattern? There was not one, as far as Jon could tell. He returned again to his own CV, unpinning his security photo.  
It was the first one he had ever taken here on his very first day. Jon was even scrawnier back then, not entirely filled out in the shoulders and a few centimeters shorter. He had practically stumbled into this job at, what, twenty-three? Twenty-four? He had made an attempt at smiling for his first security photo, his mouth lopsided as though his facial muscles were not used to flexing in such a manner. If Gertrude was merciful she’d burn and bury this.  
But why had she gone for the eyes? Jon turned his photo over to glance at the back.  
And his stomach plummeted when he saw the single word written there.  
Web.  
Oh God. He wanted so badly to pretend he did not know what that was in reference to. What that might mean.  
He threw his own photo aside and flipped over Martin’s.  
Lonely.  
And Tim’s.  
Stranger.  
Jon began turning them all over, taking in the one worded titles that each person possessed.  
Hunt, Flesh, Corruption, Vast--  
There were thirteen recurring words in counting. Jon had been the only one marked with the word Web out of the fifty-seven employees, but there were a few more Lonelys and Strangers thrown into the mix than just Martin and Tim.  
All of these people-- they must have come to the Magnus Institute looking for answers, just as Jon had. Each and every one of them had been attacked, like him, and they all just kept their mouths shut and looked for answers on their own. Fifty-seven. That was roughly one in four employees who had experienced some sort of supernatural encounter… It made sense, of course, it would be ridiculous for him to be the only one. But this was more than he ever could have guessed. How had they not talked with one another? Found one another? Jon knew the answer, of course. He was so focused on keeping his head, he could not fault these people for doing the same.  
But what was more than that, Gertrude had a method of categorizing and sorting them all. Like they were something to be catalogued and… and kept in her desk for safe keeping. How had Gertrude known about him? And why had she not given him-- given any of them-- answers? What was she keeping them on hand for?  
Jon buried his face in his hands for a moment. That woman was awful. And Martin was probably with her. How could he trust that Martin was safe? He withdrew his face and rested his chin in his palm, blinking blankly at the underbelly of Gertrude’s desk…  
What if Martin was with Gertrude because he simply had no one else to turn to?  
And then Jon realized what he was looking at.  
There was a compact cassette taped to the underside of Gertrude’s desk.  
Jon should've thought of looking there! He used to pull the same trick when he was hiding his cigarette cartons from Georgie. They had made a pact to stop smoking together back in uni, and he kept falling off the wagon. The underside of his desk was the only place she never looked (and he had started to get pretty creative by the end of it all). Georgie had won out eventually, of course, and he got round to quitting. But at least he had that little trick up his sleeve if he ever started again… which he definitely would not, of course.  
Jon yanked the cassette from its Sellotape cocoon and hauled himself up to the desk with his elbows. He practically dove to the tape player, shoving the tape inside and slamming the play button.  
The static crackled to life, and Jon waited…  
_“Hi, Jon--”_  
“Martin!” For a moment, Jon had forgotten how recordings worked and felt disappointed when Martin continued on without responding.  
_“--so, if you are listening to this, you ignored me and decided to start poking around. Which is my fault, honestly. I shouldn’t have told you to not get involved or be curious. That’s like leaving out catnip and then getting mad when cats show up.”_  
Jon resented that.  
_“But, on the good chance you're hearing this, I just… I need you to stop looking around, okay? It’s not… it isn’t safe, Jon. Gertrude and I are going to fix this-- soon. We just need to do a few things first. I’ll try to explain afterwards, I promise, but until we know more about-- about what is going on… I need you to try really hard not to snoop around or anything, okay? Just-- please, I’m begging you, when this tape finishes, head back upstairs and don’t come back down.”_  
Where was he going though? Why couldn’t Jon go with him?  
_“And just… stay safe. Jon-- I,”_  
_“--Tell him to leave my office alone, already!”_  
Jon jumped when the second voice shouted at Martin. It must have been Gertrude. Her voice was harder than he ever would have expected.  
What had she just stopped Martin from saying!?  
_“Right, yea, yea.”_  
_“And hurry up. We need to be leaving.”_  
_“I know, just--”_ Martin’s voice came back into focus as he turned his attention to Jon, “Jon. Please wait for me. And-- and stay away from Elias. I’m not joking about that. I can’t stop you from trying to-- to play detective, or whatever, but if nothing else, I need you to promise you’ll stay away from Elias. Don’t trust anything he says. Stick with Sasha and Tim. Please trust them, they're your friends. And don’t read any of the things down here. I know you’ll want to but--”  
There was a pause as Martin seemed to wrestle with his word choice. Jon closed his eyes and pressed the tape recorder against his forehead.  
_“You literally don’t know how important it is for you to stay clear of this all. And for Christ’s sake, don’t read anything Elias gives you. Please trust me on this. I’ll be back soon. I--”_  
Jon held his breath. Somewhere in the past, Martin seemed to do the same.  
_“I’ll be back soon.”_ Martin repeated. And the tape recorder clicked off.  
Jon squeezed his eyes tighter, Martin’s final words ringing in his ears.  
He replayed the tape.  
Elias couldn’t be trusted. Jon never trusted him all that much anyways, so little course correction needed there. But what an odd thing to say, _‘Don’t read anything you're given.’_ What did that mean? Martin said this place was not safe, but in what way? And where had Martin gone? Why did he leave Jon behind? Was Martin going to be safe with Gertrude, knowing her shady track record with assistants? What if she was using him? What if he was in danger and Jon could do nothing to save him? Those final questions clawed at Jon’s heart.  
Trust Sasha and Tim. That, at the very least, he could attempt.  
And then there was the matter of Martin telling him not to poke around. But what did he mean by that, exactly? As in… not look around Gertrude’s office further? But it had been so much work getting in! Maybe Martin meant that Jon should stop snooping after he left Gertrude’s office? Yes, Jon could do that much. And then Jon would leave, ignore the Archives, and find some other way to occupy his time until Martin returned.  
He would do something unrelated like... look into the thirteen words on the backs of all the photos. No, wait. That probably counted as poking around, didn’t it? Where was he supposed to draw the line with this? Why had Martin not provided clearer instructions?  
Jon shook his head and straightened up. He would finish the sweep of Gertrude’s office and then leave. He still had to investigate the cabinet, after all. Yes. The cabinet would be the last thing he would snoop around, and then he would do as Martin asked.  
Jon approached the cabinet and tested the handle, not surprised to find this locked as well. Gertrude’s excessive paranoia was making it exceedingly difficult to snoop about her office.  
Jon inspected the crevice between the cabinet doors. It was a reasonable width apart. Yes, the ruler would do nicely.  
Jon retrieved the ruler from Gertrude’s desk and shoved it in the slit between the doors, sliding it up and unhinging the latch of the lock. The door sprang open and--  
And Jon was knocked out cold.

Jon hadn’t the foggiest idea as to why he was waking up on the floor of Gertrude’s office.  
And then his head started throbbing.  
He forced himself to a sitting position, his vision making a noble attempt to refocus. But no, there was something wrong with his left eye. It was all dark and… Jon raised a hand to his face and winced. Lovely. He had somehow managed to get a black eye.  
An ungodly large tome sat on the floor just beside him-- 'Municipal Rights and Housing Regulations For London'-- Good Lord. Jon looked from the book to the top of the cabinet, deconstructing the scene of the crime in his head.  
The book must have been balanced just on the edge of the cabinet, and then Jon had come along and forced the lock, jostling the book enough to come crashing down. He must have gotten the black eye when his face collided with the floor on his way down. What had Gertrude been thinking, placing such a blunt object so precariously on the edge of the cabinet like that? It was almost like she…  
Oh.  
Oooohhhhh.  
God, Jon could be so stupid sometimes.  
The book, the mousetrap… maybe that ceiling tile was not simply poor infrastructure either. Who exactly was this woman?  
Jon touched his eye a bit more gingerly as he stood to see if the fruits of his labor were worth it.  
There was a cardboard carton overflowing with tapes, and a-- oh my, a hunting dagger. And a few other weapons, from the looks of it. What business did an Archivist have with those? And then his eyes landed on another tape-- one with a post-it note with Martin’s (goblin-scratch) handwriting on it--  
_‘Jon’._  
Jon snatched it up in an instant and dove back to the tape player, throwing the previous tape aside and inserting the new one.  
_“So if you are listening to THIS then you ignored me. Again. So firstly, I really hope you're okay, and you should lie down because you are probably concussed or something. And if you ARE okay, then I am just-- I am REALLY mad at you for not listening to me! I couldn’t get Gertrude to take down all the boobytraps, but she’s gonna take down the lethal ones--”_  
_“I’m not, and I never said I would--”_  
_“Yes she is--!”_ Jon could tell Martin was throwing the comment over his shoulder from the way his voice seemed distant, then returned, _“But Jon, seriously, if you're listening to this please go find an ice pack. There’s one in the staff freezer for emergencies. There should be plasters under the kitchen sink as well, if you need one--”_  
_“For goodness sake, how old is he?! Tell him to leave my office already, Martin--”_  
_“Yea, yea!”_ Martin actually chuckled at that a bit, _“But, Jon. Um. Please don’t keep digging around… I know that saying that will just make you want to dig around more, but… just… pretend like the world depends on it, ‘kay?“_ His voice dropped into a whisper, perhaps trying to hide it from Gertrude, _“I need you to just… try not to remember anything. Gertrude thinks that if your memory comes back then so will… Jon, please, just wait for me. We can work out the rest together when Gertrude and I finish this--”_  
_“You’re not in your thirties!”_  
A pause as Martin turned to throw his response over his shoulder.  
_“Wha?”_  
_“What else have you lied about on here--?”_  
_“Everyone lies on their CV, Gertrude!”_  
_“Jon didn’t, did you Jon? Though I never would have hired him with a haircut like that.”_  
_“His hair is just fine, Gertrude! Can you put away those pictures, please? They’re reeeaaally creepy.”_  
_“If you wanted to give that boy some advice of actual use, you'd tell him to follow my lead with the photos.”_  
_“You’re the one who said not to bring up details like--”_ Martin sighed, his breathing got a bit closer to the recorder and Jon tensed, preparing for Martin to address him again. _“Listen, Jon. I only had time to record the two tapes, so please, I’m begging you, just go back upstairs. And, Jon--” Jon began to nod. Whatever Martin had saved for last, Jon wanted to savor it, “Go get some ice already.”_  
_“Are you done yet? Hurry up, Jonah isn’t going to kill himse--”_  
The tape went dead.  
What was that last bit about Jonah?  
What was that about…  
What?  
Jon pressed his head to the tape recorder again. It was the only bit of Martin he had left. Martin was gone, but hopefully coming back soon to fix… something?  
And Martin had begged him not to remember… but what was he forgetting? No, that was counterintuitive to what Martin wanted. Jon could not imagine any possible memories worth forgetting if they had been ones shared with Martin. So why would Martin make such an impossible request?  
Then the thirteen categories Gertrude had made: Web, Stranger, Lonely, Desolation, Slaughter, Flesh, Hunt, Dark, Buried, Vast, End, Corruption, and Spiral. What did that mean? Were there more?  
Jon ran his fingers through his hair. Martin had begged Jon to stop looking. Had asked him on three separate occasions now, and Jon had disobeyed him twice.  
Jon cast a longing glance to the box of tapes in Gertrude’s cabinet. There were answers, right there, literally within his grasp. They might lead him to know what the Web meant, more about the Leitners, more about everything.  
But what if they lead him away from Martin?  
And Jon made his decision.  
He stood and packed Gertrude’s desk back up, trying not to look at the security photos, locking the desk drawer behind him. He shut the cabinet too, though he did not bother cleaning the book or tile from the floor. He was not feeling that ambitious.  
Jon did, however, pocket the two tapes Martin had left behind for him. He would keep them safe until Martin returned.  
Jon would listen to Martin. He needed to listen to Martin. He would keep his head down and wait because Martin would be coming back.  
Jon vowed to try his best to stay out of the way.

The vow was broken within twenty-four hours.  
In Jon’s defense, it was Sasha’s fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT TIME, ON AS THE ARCHIVES TURN!:
> 
> Two lovers, forbidden from one another  
> A war divides their people  
> And a mountain divides them apart  
> Built a path to be together  
> (...Yeah, and I forget the next couple of lines, but then it goes...)  
> SECRET TUNNEL!!!!!  
> SECRET TUNNEL!!!!!  
> THROUGH THE MOUNTAIN!   
> SECRET SECRET SECRET SECRET TUNNEL!!!!!!!
> 
> Plus, Elias shows up again. He may or may not spend a portion of it insulting Charles Dickens. I think they had beef in the past, but I'm not sure, Elias does not say.


	4. Hell Is Empty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Clue Crew discover some secret tunnels and Archival secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Dead Body

Jon had apparently spent a good portion of the morning unconscious on Gertrude’s office floor.   
Thank God there was no Department Meeting scheduled, the thought of missing two in a row made his skin crawl.   
Still, it was ten in the morning and no one had noticed his absence. He could not fault anyone but himself, of course. If he made a point of hiding from the rest of the staff, then how were they supposed to know if he was missing?  
Most everyone would have settled into their offices or meetings by this point, which at least meant Jon would not have anyone prying into why he was suddenly sporting a swollen eye. Thank God for small blessings.   
Jon did as Martin had instructed, steering himself to the staff kitchen and rooting through the freezer. Alas, there was no ice pack in sight. There was, however, a bag of frozen peas, which made less sense to keep in a staff fridge but, to hell with it. Jon was willing to wager his eye needed them more than the original owner needed the protein or whatever people consumed peas for.   
Jon had not realized how much his eye ached til the cold of the peas package seeped into his swollen skin. They were an instant levity, and he could not help but sigh as he sank down to lean on the counter. It was a good thing Martin had mentioned grabbing something for his eye, otherwise he probably would not have thought of it...  
Oh God, was Gertrude right? Was he a child?   
No. Jon was just a busy person, and sometimes it was hard to justify finding time to grab ice packs over measly little things like black eyes.   
Rotating the makeshift pack against his face, Jon began to fill the kettle. Tea, he decided, would do wonders for him right about now (white tea, properly steeped, with just a touch of milk). Best hurry up before anyone--   
“What meetings are you planning on skipping today? You absolute maverick!”  
“For God’s sake! There are two hundred people in this Institute-- why don’t you go bother one of them?” Jon’s reaction had been such an instantaneous snap that he barely realized he was saying it until it was done. He mentally kicked himself.   
There was no reason to talk to Tim like that. It was not Tim’s fault that Jon’s head throbbed from being bludgeoned by a textbook, or that his body ached after a poor night’s sleep on the bathroom floor, or that his chest hurt because…   
Jon could blame Martin for that last one, at least.   
Jon needed to apologize. He wanted to apologize. But instead he found himself turning back to his tea in a feeble attempt to hide his face.   
There was a thick silence as Jon waited to hear Tim’s footsteps leaving the room, but they did not come. Jon did his best to ignore the tension in the air as he poured water into his mug. How had he already messed up? Martin had said to trust Tim and Sasha. And he did! But that didn’t mean he necessarily wanted them around. More than that, Jon had no right to purposefully involve anyone else in this nonsense. Tim and Sasha would no doubt want to seek answers just as much as he did (well, maybe not just as much). If they wanted him to investigate with them, Jon was certain he'd be able to withstand the peer pressure about as well as a cardboard box could withstand a hand grenade.   
“Jon? Are you alright?”   
Oh, great. Even better. Tim’s voice was genuinely concerned, more serious than he'd ever heard Tim before, in fact. He should have been mad at Jon-- it would have been so much easier if Tim just got annoyed and stormed off. Justified, actually.   
“Yes, yes, I’m alright. Sorry for snapping. I was hoping not to run into anyone.”   
“You didn’t get into a fight or something, did you?”   
It was odd to hear Tim’s voice devoid of sarcasm or humor. Jon had not thought him capable of such a tone. “It’s really not worth wasting your time talking about. I’m sure you have plenty of work to be focusing on.”   
“Alright, alright. Sorry. I don't want to pry.”  
“Thank you.”   
“But I’m sure the other guy looks worse.” A drop of Tim’s typical humor had leaked back into his voice, but it was gentle with more an air of encouragement than anything else.   
It sparked a slight smile on Jon’s face. Tim tried hard to create levity in bad situations. “You know me. Probably sent him to hospital.” Jon’s humor and tone were typically dry in the exact way the Pacific Ocean wasn’t. It meant his jokes did not land with people who didn’t know him well, and rarely landed with people who did. But Tim gave a relieved sort of chuckle.  
“That’s the spirit!” Jon risked a glance over his shoulder at Tim, who was offering up a soft grin. “But seriously, if you need to talk, you know where to find me.”   
He did the finger gun thing, which Jon typically found annoying, but this time he smiled as he rolled his eyes. For some reason, it occurred to Jon that Tim would probably have been the coolest older brother.   
“Yes. Thanks. But I should really be getting to work. Lot’s to do today. Apparently, some tourists thought they saw a specter traipsing about Stratford-Upon-Avon.”  
Tim was not oblivious to the topic subversion, but was a good sport and played along. “Well, that’s a bit on the nose, don’t you think?”   
“Probably got high and forgot they were watching Hamlet.”   
“Sounds like my weekend!”   
“Well, at least yours sound more exciting than mine.” Jon grabbed his mug of tea with one hand and readjusted the ice pack with the other. “Be seeing you, then.”   
Jon made it through the door of the kitchen and then stopped, turning slightly and locking his eyes to his shoelaces. “And Tim,” he could feel Tim’s eyes on him, “m’sorry.” Jon hurried out before Tim could reply.   
Jon returned to his office, and successfully kept to himself the rest of the day. 

Sleeping was no easier that night. The only difference was the new smorgasbord of terrors to choose from.  
Something with a stolen face was hunting him through winding tunnels.   
Doors swallowed him and forced him to wander impossible corridors.  
Hundreds upon hundreds of tiny things burrowed into his skin, wanting to always be a part of him and cure him of his loneliness.   
He was on a beach, and Martin did not want to leave with him…   
Jon was throwing up in the bathroom again. How had he managed to get there? Maybe he was still dreaming. This was just another vignette of horror and he would soon wake safe in bed, and there would be a warm embrace waiting to comfort him…   
Another wave of vomit was enough to convince him that this was indeed reality. The pain was too real to be anything less.   
How long could he keep this up? He had barely been able to keep any food down for the past two days. Between his night terrors, and the strains of his waking hours… he just wanted to rest. Just a few hours of sleep.   
Jon managed to pull a blanket from off his bed and dragged it back with him to the bathroom. If he was going to spend another night trembling on the tiled floor, he could at least do it in luxury.   
As he shivered off to sleep, Jon decided that if he could simply go one day without enduring any migraines or injuries or blunt force traumas, it would be an absolute blessing. 

Sasha rammed him out of his chair with his office door that next morning.   
“COULD YOU KNOCK FIRST!?” Jon shouted from the floor, clutching at the purple bruises blooming on his elbow. He had not bothered to look up to see who he was yelling at. He didn’t even care if it was Elias. Actually, no, he hoped it was Elias. He’d love an excuse to yell at Elias right about now.   
“Christ! Sorry, Jon, I just--” Sasha looked like she wanted to offer a hand to help him up, but the geography of the room made that sort of Olympic stunt impossible. “Tim said you got mugged or something yesterday! Are you okay!?”   
Sure enough, Tim stood behind her in the hallway, holding his morning coffee and looking slightly guilty. They must have been chatting over breakfast only moments before.   
“Well I was doing fine until some maniac kicked my door in!”   
He did not need to bristle like that at Sasha. It was an accident, she was just checking on him because she was a kind person who was concerned for her fellow coworker. But why did she have to go about checking on him in such an aggressive manner?   
“Sorry! Sorry! I didn’t realize how small your office was!” Sasha insisted. “Did you cancel your credit cards? That’s the first thing you should do--”   
“Sasha, what are you--? I wasn’t mugged! It was an accident!” It was not a lie, at least. He had accidentally set off a boobytrap while breaking into his coworker’s office.   
“Oh.” Sasha replied, cooling quickly, then turned to Tim. “You said he was mugged.”   
“No I didn’t.” Tim risked another guilty glance at Jon. “I just said he was… probably mugged.”   
Jon just grimaced at them both.   
“What sort of accident?” Sasha asked, concern creeping back into her voice. A direct question. Jon did not want to lie to them. They were, technically, his allies. More importantly, he was a terrible liar and they’d see through anything but a version of the truth.   
“Well… I went down to the Archives.” He tried to pretend that that was a complete answer and shut his mouth tight.   
He had not considered that half an answer still left a good amount of room for the imagination though. Sasha’s face contorted into fury the instant he stopped talking, “Did Gertrude do that to you, then?”   
Jon hesitated. And told an honest answer. “I mean… technically… yes?”   
Jon was not sure how he expected Sasha to react. Probably just scold him for being nosey and tell him he brought it on himself. And she’d be justified in saying that too.   
What he was not expecting was for Sasha to turn on her heels the moment he finished speaking and storm down the corridor and out of sight.   
Tim and Jon were both frozen for a full second.   
“Where is she going?” Jon already knew the answer.   
Tim’s face cracked into a wide smile. “Oh-ho-ho! We gotta see this!” And Tim was off, going as fast as his full mug of coffee would allow.   
"W-wait! Gertrude isn’t even-- Sasha!"   
Jon untangled his limbs from the chair, hauled himself off the floor and ran after them both. 

Sure enough, Sasha was heading to the Archives.   
Jon managed to catch her and Tim on the steps descending to the basement, his shaky legs struggling to keep apace with them. He was forced to grip the handrail as his uncoordinated feet fumbled on every other step. Damn, he was too tired for this.   
“Sasha-- Sasha, what are you doing?”   
“I’m having a word with our Archivist!”   
“Please, Sasha! You don’t need to do this on my behalf!”   
“This isn’t about just you, Jon! She can’t treat people like this! I am just-- I am not putting up with it from her or Elias anymore!”   
Sasha publicly detested both of them. But this reaction made it seem like there was more to the story than Jon was aware of.   
“Sasha, please! It was an accident-- she didn’t punch me directly, or anything!”   
Sasha stopped at the bottom step and spun about to look at him, hands on hips. “Directly?”   
Jon caught himself on the railing, mouth working furiously. He did not have any idea how to respond to that. “I may or may not have activated her bobby traps.”   
Tim spewed his mouthful of coffee into a fine mist over the stairs. “Her what!?!” He was fighting off a bout of laughter. That was Sasha’s cue to turn back around and continue her march towards the staff room. “Haha! Gertrude’s in for it!” Tim galloped after Sasha.   
Jon took his earlier compliment back. Tim would be a terrible older brother.   
Jon hesitated on the bottom step, trotting in place. He had promised he would not come back down here. He was supposed to wait for Martin. But who knew what havoc those two hooligans would wreak if left unchecked.   
“Sasha! She’s probably not here! She wasn’t here yesterday either!” he called after them both.   
Sasha ignored him and turned the corner to the staff room. Her voice carried down the passageway to him. “Gertrude! I’d like a word with you!”   
Jon shuffled, sparing one last look to the world above. “Please forgive me,” he said to no one in particular, and stumbled down the hallway after Tim and Sasha.   
By the time Jon entered the staff room, Tim and Sasha were in Gertrude’s office.  
“She’s not here, Sasha. I don’t think she’ll be back for awhile.” God, he even sounded exhausted.   
Sasha’s nostrils flared, but she did not respond. She was taking in the details of the office.   
“Jesus Christ, Jon! That tile could have killed you!” Tim said, poking around the bits of ceramics with the toe of his shoe.   
“I didn’t get hit with the tile.” Jon grumbled, coming close enough to stand with him in the doorway. Tim frowned and glanced about the room. Then his eyes landed on the textbook by the cabinet. He pointed at it. And then started laughing.   
“Yes, yes. Very funny.” Jon grimaced, leaning on the doorframe for support.   
“Jon! You got into a fight! With a book!” Tim was literally wiping away a tear.   
“Well. I’m the only one who walked away. So technically I won a fight with a book.” He forced it through gritted teeth, wanting badly for Tim to drop the subject.   
“So what was Gertrude hiding in here that was so worth booby trapping?” Sasha asked, glaring at the cabinet.   
“Sasha, it’s nothing worth it! Please, can we go back upstairs?” He sounded like a child who did not want to be caught sneaking around by his overbearing parents. It was pathetic.   
Sasha ignored him, throwing the cabinet doors open and Tim jumped forward to see the contents. “Wow! Is that real!?” Tim asked, pointing at who-even-cared, probably a katana or a B-52 or something.   
“I knew she was shady as hell!” Sasha snorted. She spun around to confront Jon. “What else is she hiding, then?”   
“Please, Sasha. We can’t be down here!”   
“You just said she wouldn’t be back for a while. So why not have a look around?”   
“But… why?”   
Sasha was already pacing to the door back to the staff room. She stopped, placing her hands on her hips. “What do you mean ‘why’? If the cabinet full of weapons isn’t sketchy enough for you, I can guarantee there will be worse things if we keep looking! So either I phone the police now, or I look around and phone the police later! What would you prefer, Jon?”   
Jon hung his head, making no effort to hide his dread, "Please don’t bring the police into this."  
Sasha’s anger ebbed a bit as she looked him over, and she sighed. “Jon, we’ll have to tell someone either way. You can’t just turn a blind eye to this stuff. If nothing else, we can’t let her get away with assaulting you.”   
“Maybe just... please, wait for Gertrude to come back and confront her yourself then? Just don’t call the police. Or Elias. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. Please.” Jon was not used to asking others to have blind faith in him like this. Jon tore his eyes away from the floor and blinked up at Sasha.   
At least if they just waited for Gertrude to come back he would know whether or not Martin was safe. And if Martin wasn’t, then Sasha would have to get in line.   
Sasha screwed up her face, clearly conflicted on the matter. She must have worked out how rare it was for Jon to request this sort of favor. “Fine. I’ll wait. But I’m still having a look around.”   
Jon felt his shoulders go slack with relief. “Thank you.”   
“But if we find a body or something, we call the police.”   
“Fair enough.”   
Sasha pushed by him and began to investigate the staff room.   
(They would be forced to call the police by lunchtime). 

If Jon was going to babysit Tim and Sasha he wished he could have at least been paid for it.   
Sasha was mostly manageable. She seemed intent on finding damning evidence or hints as to what Gertrude was doing in the Archives, leaving a hurricane of paper and open drawers in her wake. She tore through the various cupboards and storage rooms, muttering under her breath furiously as she came up empty each time.   
“Nothing but statements!” She kept grumbling.   
Tim, on the other hand, was insufferable.   
Jon would look away for ten seconds, and would turn back to find Tim madly swinging around one of Gertrude’s weapons while making lightsaber noises. The fool was going to poke someone’s eye out! Jon had already confiscated a hatchet, a meat cleaver, two hunting knives, and a katana.   
“Why’s she got all these letters from Jerry Maglev!?” Tim called from behind Gertrude’s desk as Jon added the katana to the pile of banned weapons on a spare desk in the staff room.   
“Tim-- how did you get into Gertrude’s desk! It was locked!”   
“I unlocked it. Obviously.”   
“How?”   
“With my key? All the locks on the desks here are interchangeable, everyone knows that.”   
“Well... probably not everyone...”   
Jon did his best to appear uninterested as Tim turned his attention to the top drawer. Jon watched as he frowned at the bare bottom and leaned in to examine it closer. Would he find the secret compartment? What would he and Sasha make of the photos? Sasha would probably think Gertrude was making some kind of hit list and insist they inform the authorities (oh no, Jon had not even considered the idea of a hit list. Was that a hist list? No. That was ridiculous). It would be best they not find the photos or CVs at all. Jon would have to find a way to divert Tim’s attention from the desk. What would work best?   
“OUCH-- DAMNIT!”   
As it turned out-- apparently Jon did not have to distract him. The moment Sasha’s cry reached them from the other room, Tim bolted upright and was soaring over the shattered tile and out of Gertrude's office in seconds flat.   
“Sasha!?”   
Jon stumbled after him to the storage room that Sasha had been desecrating moments ago.   
“Jesus, Sasha, are you alright?” Jon peered over Tim’s shoulder as they skidded to a stop in the doorway.  
“Damn building!” Sasha was hobbling about on one foot as she clasped the other in her hands. “This job is trying to kill me!”   
Tim snickered. “The Great Sasha James. Bested by a rusty, old nail. Can’t bring you two anywhere.”   
Jon’s eyes fell on the floor. Sure enough, jutting out of the wood was a jagged nail just waiting to catch an employee by the toe. And it was not the only one, either. Most of the nails were flush with the floor, clustered closely in a line along a board of wood. A bit excessive...   
Sasha seemed to be thinking the same thing. She dropped to her knees and began to trace her fingers around an almost indiscernible square outline hidden in the woodwork.   
Tim gasped. “Is that what I think it is?” He was almost thrumming with excitement as he dropped to Sasha’s side.   
Sasha nodded, “But why would an Archives need a trap door?”   
Jon wanted to know. Very, very badly in fact.   
But that was the exact opposite of what Martin asked. He needed to convince Sasha and Tim to leave the Archives, not go further in!   
He swallowed, trying to come up with an innocent explanation. “It’s an old building. It’s probably just additional storage.”   
“Why would additional storage need to be sealed off?”   
“Ummmm…” Jon wracked his brain, needing to find an answer that convinced himself as much as Sasha. “Maybe they didn’t want the books getting out?”   
Sasha and Tim ignored him.   
“Can we get it open?” Tim asked. Literally bouncing up and down.   
“One way to find out!” And Sasha disappeared out the storage room door.   
“Wow. Impressive.” Tim said sarcastically, then turned to Jon, “She does realize that’s the wrong way, right?”   
Jon was barely listening to him. He was breaking his promise to Martin yet again. This could not end well. But what was down there? Had Gertrude been the one to seal off the tunnel? Why? And the shade of exposed wood sticking up from around the base of the nailheads made the seal look relatively recent…   
Had the goal been to keep something in or out?  
Sasha returned with a machete.   
“You. Are literally. So cool.” Tim stated.   
“I know. Now excuse me.”   
Jon and Tim scurried from their spots on the floor, allowing Sasha room to wedge the blade below the lip of the trapdoor. Jon watched as she jostled the blade further in, then leaned her weight forward on the hilt, putting as much pressure down as possible--   
The nails began to lose their bite on the wood. Sasha gave a final warcry as she heaved the hilt and the trap door sprang open. Sasha threw it open with a satisfying clatter.   
Tim dropped to the floor and plunged his head into the darkness below. He gasped and suddenly sang, much louder than necessary, “SECRET TUNNEL!!!”   
Jon could hear his voice reverberate off the walls as it passed through the tunnel below for what could have been miles. “Well, there goes the element of surprise,” Jon sighed.   
He crawled forward to join Tim, and peered down into the depths below. A ladder descended roughly three meters into the darkness.  
Sasha placed her hands on her hips from above them. “Gentlemen. What percentage are your phone batteries at this current moment?”   
They checked.   
“Sixty-nine percent, ma’am. And I’m not even joking. That’s magnificent.”   
“Eighty-nine. Sorry.”   
“Tim, I’m happy you're happy. And Jon, that’s fine.” Sasha withdrew her own phone. “Here’s the plan.” Jon and Tim both sat up and awaited her instructions. “Tim, you stay up here.”  
“Aaawww…”   
“Sorry, Tim. Shoulda brought a portable charger. You can come next time.”   
“You better pinky promise me that, James.”   
Sasha held out her pinky to Tim as she continued on with the plan, “Tim stays up here to make sure no one comes back round and seals us in. Jon, you come with me. We can use your torch as a backup in case min runs low.”   
Jon nodded, doing his best to repress any sign of excitement on his face.   
“Jon. Stay close. If we get separated, try to find your way back here. Tim, if we aren’t back by the end of the workday, call 999.”   
Tim saluted, “Yes, ma’am! You two come back safe!”   
Sasha flashed a smile at him, then turned to Jon, “You ready, then?”   
“Y-yes!” He tried to match their confidence.   
“Let’s go.” 

Jon had always found the concept of the hidden passages and waterways winding beneath London a romantic concept.   
Concept. He could not stress that word enough.   
He never had a desire to visit any in person, and the tunnels beneath the Institute were doing very little to convince him he had been in the wrong in his opinion. They twisted and turned at odd angles, jutting sharply or zizagging with little rhyme or reason that Jon could make out. The meandering mess was making Jon’s head spin as he did his best to stay on Sasha’s heels.   
But it was not just that. He could not help but sway with a dizzying sense of deja-vu. He’d been here before, hadn’t he? No, that couldn’t be right…   
“Jon? You alright?”   
“Y-yeah, I just. I think I’ve dreamed about this place before?” Jon wasn’t an idiot. Dreams were just that, and the moment you gave them any more weight than they deserved you’d be on a slippery slope down to consulting tarot cards or reading the Daily Mail.   
“Oh?” Sasha seemed to be thinking the same thing.   
“A-and I think... You were there too…?” The world was starting to feel hazy and distant, but a rational part of his brain screamed at him to please shut up about dreams. Sasha was the coolest person he had ever been on speaking terms with, and here he was subjecting her to his meltdown.   
But was that Sasha in his dream? He had been in the tunnels and she had been chasing him. Only it wasn’t Sasha. It said it was, but it had been lying.   
No, he was being ridiculous. Dreams were contradictory by nature. He had plenty of dreams in the past where people wore the faces of others. Why should this be any different? The dream he had of Sasha last night had just been vivid, that was all...  
Jon had once heard that computers could not comprehend paradoxes because it was impossible for a machine to simultaneously hold two conflicting truths at one time. As Jon swayed to a stop there in the tunnels, he realized that human brains are not all that different. They are simply not meant to hold two conflicting realities. How could he have both been and not have been in these tunnels before? How could he have been chased by a thing that was and was Not Sasha?   
“Jon?”   
Jon found himself leaning on the brick wall, his eyes squeezed closed and his head swimming with nausea.   
“Let’s head back. You can swap with Tim, okay?”  
Jon pushed himself back up to a standing position, attempting to look confident. “Sorry, just a bit light headed. Probably the change in atmospheric pressure. We should keep going.” Jon started to march forward again, not allowing Sasha the chance to fight him on the matter. “Gertrude must have known about this place,” Jon stated. “Maybe Martin did too? Do you think they’re down here now?”   
Sasha seemed to think it over. “I hope not. That would mean the trapdoor was sealed with them still inside.”  
“Hm. Morbid point taken.”   
Sasha came to a sudden halt and Jon ran square into her back.   
"Hey!"   
"Jon, look!"   
The beam of light had fallen on a door. A simple, brown, wooden door warped slightly by age and embedded in the brick. Jon and Sasha exchanged brief glances before tiptoeing forward. What was it doing here? Sasha rested her hand on the doorknob and nodded to Jon, who gave a curt nod in return. She pushed it open.   
And neither of them recognized the dead man inside. 

Jon did, however, recognize the smell.   
He recognized it long before he was even able to process the sight.   
He caught himself on the wall, choking on the stink of decay as he buried his nose and mouth in his shirt to try and stop the smell from curdling in his stomach.   
“Oh my God…” Sasha gagged into her elbow, her eyes bulging.   
“I don’t… I don’t understand. Who...?” Jon could not tear his eyes off the man. He was in his sixties? Seventies, maybe? It was hard to tell his age through the tangle of white hair on his head and chin. His clothes were ragged and old, like he'd not been able to change them in a long while, and his glasses sat lopsided with a crack running through one lens. His body had been thrown on a chair in the center of the room.   
There was a bullet hole just below his right eye.   
It took a minute for Jon to realize Sasha had been repeating his name. “--Jon? I’m gonna see if he has an ID,okay? Wait out in the hall till I’m done--"   
“N-no! I’m staying. I need to see this.” Jon forced himself up. Sasha did not bother arguing with him, and shifted the torchlight to the corpse. Jon made a poor attempt to sound impartial. “How old is it? I mean him. How old is the body?”   
Sasha rooted around his pockets, coming up empty at every one.   
“Dunno. Recent, I think? Maybe a day or two?”   
“Around the same time Gertrude and Martin left?” Jon’s voice was tight as he asked no one in particular. Surely it was a coincidence, right? It had to be. But why would Gertrude and Martin vanish from the Institute around the same time of the murder? Martin was obviously innocent, but it might not look that way to the police.   
“Wait! I think he…” Sasha’s hand seemed to find something in the man’s inside pocket. She pulled it free. It was an old pocket-sized book, thin with crumble yellow pages and a rather forgettable brown cover. “‘A Disappearance,’” she read aloud.   
Sasha flipped open to the inside cover and Jon seized her wrist, “Don’t!”   
There, on the first page, was the seal of Leitner.   
“I know, Jon, I see it too.”   
“Sorry,” he managed, recoiling his hand from her and pinning both arms to his sides. He turned his attention back to the body. “Why would he have a Leitner?”   
Sasha only breathed a response, closing ‘A Disappearance’ and raising the light to examine the rest of the room.   
“Jesus…”   
Sasha held the beam on a bullet hole embedded in the wall behind the man, and quickly found a second one only a meter away.   
“You don’t think…oh God, you don’t think Gertrude did this, do you?”   
“We can’t jump to conclusions.” It was such a formal delivery. It made Jon shiver.   
“S-Sasha. She was with Martin. What if he’s down here too? What if he-- oh, God--”   
Gertrude had a terrible track record with assistants. She had weapons stored in her office and photos with eyes penned out in her desk. You could not get more serial killer than that. What if she had led Martin here as some sort of trick? What if Martin had been wrong to trust her? What if Gertrude killed this man and then turned on Martin?   
And before Jon could put together a cohesive thought he was charging out into the tunnels, colliding into the walls in complete darkness as he tried to find his way forward.  
“MARTIN!?”  
It had to be a coincidence, right? Who else could have known about the tunnels other than Gertrude? There had been two bullet holes in the wall-- what if Gertrude had been aiming for Martin and missed? Was Martin alive? Maybe he had been chased deeper into the tunnels? Maybe he was hurt and unable to respond to Jon’s calls? Jon needed to go further in, he needed to be sure Martin was safe--  
“MARTIN!?”  
And then Jon was rugby tackled to the ground. He wheezed as the air was squashed from his lungs, and realized after one dazed moment that Sasha was sitting on his back.   
“JON! You cannot go running off like that!”   
"M-Martin! He might be hurt! Further in!"   
"Jon. If that's the case then we need to contact the authorities."   
He stopped struggling beneath her, his brain churning her words over at top speed.   
She was right. She was right and he hated it. Even if Martin was hurt Jon would not be of any use blindly running around the tunnels like that.   
Sasha rose slowly from his back, poised to tackle him again if he showed any sign of running, and after a moment she offered her hand down and helped him to his feet.   
“He’ll be alright, Jon. Gertrude wouldn’t hurt anyone unless she had a good reason.”  
How good of a reason did someone need to justify murder?  
But Jon just nodded and followed her as they began the journey out of the tunnels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See ya, Space Cowboy. 
> 
> Hey, dudes. Thanks for reading. This chapter took longer to iron out than I meant, but stick around for the next chapter because oh boy is that fun. Elias comes back and that guy is just wild to write. 
> 
> We are coming down on the last episode of the show!!!! So wild! It's been a fun ride, guys. Anyways, hope you enjoyed this chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this for my sister's birthday as a surprise and now it is suddenly an 80+ paged project. So I figured I might as well post it. It is all just for fun, so I hope you can enjoy and forgive me for any grammar or spelling errors.  
> Just a heads up, this gets a bit more wild than I was even expecting.  
> But I hope you enjoy and stick around because I (hopefully) have some fun twists prepared for the future.


End file.
